Dona Perfecta eBook

those ballads of the North, that always end with vague
resonances of woe? Are they pessimists, those
singers of our own land, who surprise us with tears
in the midst of laughter? Is Nature pessimistic,
who is so sad at nightfall that it seems as if day
were dying forever? . . . The sadness of art,
like that of nature, is a form of hope. Why is
Christianity so artistic? Because it is the religion
of sadness.”

W. D. HOWELLS.

DONA PERFECTA

CHAPTER I

Villahorrenda! Fiveminutes!

When the down train No. 65—­of what line
it is unnecessary to say—­stopped at the
little station between kilometres 171 and 172, almost
all the second-and third-class passengers remained
in the cars, yawning or asleep, for the penetrating
cold of the early morning did not invite to a walk
on the unsheltered platform. The only first-class
passenger on the train alighted quickly, and addressing
a group of the employes asked them if this was the
Villahorrenda station.

“We are in Villahorrenda,” answered the
conductor whose voice was drowned by the cackling
of the hens which were at that moment being lifted
into the freight car. “I forgot to call
you, Senor de Rey. I think they are waiting for
you at the station with the beasts.”

“Why, how terribly cold it is here!” said
the traveller, drawing his cloak more closely about
him. “Is there no place in the station where
I could rest for a while, and get warm, before undertaking
a journey on horseback through this frozen country?”

Before he had finished speaking the conductor, called
away by the urgent duties of his position, went off,
leaving our unknown cavalier’s question unanswered.
The latter saw that another employe was coming toward
him, holding a lantern in his right hand, that swung
back and forth as he walked, casting the light on
the platform of the station in a series of zigzags,
like those described by the shower from a watering-pot.

“Is there a restaurant or a bedroom in the station
of Villahorrenda?” said the traveller to the
man with the lantern.

“There is nothing here,” answered the
latter brusquely, running toward the men who were
putting the freight on board the cars, and assuaging
them with such a volley of oaths, blasphemies, and
abusive epithets that the very chickens, scandalized
by his brutality, protested against it from their
baskets.

“The best thing I can do is to get away from
this place as quickly as possible,” said the
gentlemen to himself. “The conductor said
that the beasts were here.”

Just as he had come to this conclusion he felt a thin
hand pulling him gently and respectfully by the cloak.
He turned round and saw a figure enveloped in a gray
cloak, and out of whose voluminous folds peeped the
shrivelled and astute countenance of a Castilian peasant.
He looked at the ungainly figure, which reminded one
of the black poplar among trees; he observed the shrewd
eyes that shone from beneath the wide brim of the
old velvet hat; the sinewy brown hand that grasped
a green switch, and the broad foot that, with every
movement, made the iron spur jingle.